Baby Cakes? Try Crazy Cakes!
by Fairady
Summary: Masks were simply a way of life in Beacon Hills, and Stiles knows that in order to do anything worthwhile he'll have to pick one up for himself. And maybe a few other accessories to go along with it.


Disclaimer: I own not and make no money off of this.

Warnings: Crack.

Notes: All I can say is that strange ideas pop up in the shower.

Baby Cakes? Try Crazy Cakes!  
by Fairady

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Like most psychopaths, Stiles wasn't sure when exactly it was that he lost his damn mind. There wasn't a single event he could point to or a place in time he could pin down as being where he crossed the line and became certifiably crazy cakes. It was instead a series of events that happened over a period of time that led him to this point in his life.

Though if he had to point fingers he'd probably be fingering the goddamn Batman, because it wasn't until tall, dark, and batty showed up in the Hills that masks became as common as 1D ringtones in a middle school girls locker room. You could barely do anything in Beacon Hills anymore without a mask -heroic, villainous, or otherwise- becoming involved.

It was definitely that sour bat's fault that Stiles, more often than not, found himself donning a mask and taking to the streets with more guts and souped up gadgets than sense. Yep. It was all Batman's fault.

Ok. So maybe he could also throw a couple fingers toward Miss Cocoa Sparks and her gang of fine ladies for the fact that his mask came with two inch heeled boots, a nice set of falsies, and a fiery red mane with matching lipstick.

It'd seemed like such a brilliant plan at the time though. What better way to keep his identity a secret from the public and criminals than to look as little like himself as possible? What better way to do that than to become the opposite gender of what he really was? It was fool-proof! No one would _ever_ be able to put Stiles Stilinski and Batgirl together. No one!

Not even his dad. _Especially_ not his dad. Who would absolutely flip his shit and straight up murder Stiles if he had even the vaguest _inkling_ of what Stiles was doing.

So, maybe he'd gone a little overboard with the whole identity thing because of reasons. It didn't make it any less of a bad idea. Sure, it'd been a bitch learning to not only move but also fight in heels. And a wig, and breasts, oh, and cape because if he was doing the whole mask thing -and doing it to the extreme- he might as well go all the way. Miss Cocoa and her ladies had been happy to help him learn all of that, and hadn't even so much as thought about asking him pesky questions for which he was eternally grateful.

Maybe it'd taken him a while to learn to ignore the presence of the colored contacts, and maybe he'd nearly given up finding the perfect shade of red to go with the perfect red wig he'd bought from a really discreet store downtown. And maybe he'd spent a little too much time just staring at Lydia Martin, who was _the_ most perfect example of womanhood, just to memorize the way she moved and talked thereby earning him permanent creeper status.

It was all worth it. For the look on some low life's face just before he lost a few teeth, for the look in people's eyes as they realized help was there, for the way a child's tears could turn into a shy smile. For the knowledge that his father wasn't as alone against the crap the Hills threw at him. Yeah, it was worth it.

Didn't mean Stiles couldn't bitch about it. To himself, in his own mind, because he was still fucking crazy for doing this.

Stiles paused in the shadowed recess of an abandoned -well, it was now that he'd busted up the meth lab it used to house- apartment complex to rest. Swinging around rooftops all night wasn't nearly as easy as the Bat and his brood of Robins made it look after all. The heels didn't help a damn bit either. He envied Robin #2 nightly for being able to pull off her flat, black ass-kicker boots. Stiles would have loved having flat boots, but he'd chosen to reveal himself to the night in style instead and was now stuck with his canary yellow ankle-killers.

Stiles would _love_ to be surprised that his boots had so quickly become a signature part of his persona, but, sadly enough, he'd seen too much superhero fantasy porn to pretend ignorance.

Sitting on a crumbling ledge Stiles gently rotated his ankles as much as the boots would allow. Feeling the pop and ache of his joints and cursing, vehemently, the day he'd allowed Miss Cocoa to train him in the art of wearing heels. An art that had combined looking absolutely fabulous with being lethally deadly, and Stiles had done his best not to think why an ex-SEAL drag queen knew exactly how best to use stiletto heels in a fight too often.

Satisfied with the looseness in his ankles, Stiles began a series of quick stretches. Even the short seconds he'd spent sitting would have been enough to tighten some of his muscles back up. Stiles had learned rather quickly that keeping himself as limber as physically possible went a long damn way to making sure he didn't have another morning where he woke up in unbelievable pain and misery. Stiff as a board, muscles knotted like concrete, and whimpering pitifully.

Just as he was considering eating one of the granola bars he'd managed to stuff in the tiny pouch of his belt -and it was so not fair that thugs tended to _laugh_ no matter how hard you beat them when you carried a purse around, because he could fit _so_ much more goodies in one- when one of the voices on the police band he'd been listening into caught his attention with a smash and grab nearby. Pressing against the ear piece he focused in on the rather young sounding cop, unable to place it to a face immediately. It was probably one of the dozen fresh-faced recruits hired to replace the officers lost in the Killer Croc's last rampage at the station.

Just as Stiles heard the description of two subjects a scuffling noise made him look over the ledge to the alley below. Stiles smiled and grabbed his grappling hook, firing it as he let himself fall in a move that looked more graceful than it actually was. His boots crunched so very nicely in Thug #1's ribs, sending him and the stolen TV flying backwards. From the way he flopped and wheezed Stiles didn't think he was going to get up again.

God, he loved it when the perps just crumbled with barely a touch!

Grinning brightly he spun away from Thug #2's sloppy punch and lashed out with a gut punch that made the man stagger, "Looks like karma's decided to collect early on you fellas. Now I know you really need to see Ryan Gosling in hi-definition to truly appreciate his, hm, _assets_ but-"

"Bitch!" Thug #2 choked out and quiet click with a barely seen glimmer was the only warning Stiles got before a knife was introduced into play. Stiles skipped backwards, swaying away from each wild slash until Thug #2 over extended himself.

Thug #2's nose crunched nicely under Stiles' fist and the man dropped like a rock, out cold before the knife could finish clattering in the nearly silent alley. Sighing, Stiles shook his hair out of his face and walked towards Thug #1. He looked down at the clearly frightened man and pouted, "I was only trying to say I understand the urgent need for such a big flat screen. No need for him to get so harsh about it. But, you know the saying, it doesn't pay, et cetera, et cetera."

Sirens sounded through the night, coming closer as Stiles fisted his hands in Thug #1's shirt and dragged his body out to the street. Cracked ribs and all. "Now, be a dear and tell the lovely officers where your partner is while I go run a few more errands, okay?"

Blowing a kiss at the groaning man, Stiles fired off his grappling hook and took to the rooftops before the possibly twitchy newbie arrived on scene. The new guys always seemed to like taking potshots at masks regardless of which line they toed for the first few months and Stiles just didn't feel like breaking one of them in that night. Batman did a much better job of that anyway.

He just _loomed_ and the newbie would start shitting himself. Stiles should know, he'd seen it happen at the station once when he'd been bringing a salad in for his dad. It hadn't been pretty.

Stiles stuck around for a few precious seconds, watching from the roof, just to be sure everything was fine. As soon as the second set of cuffs were ratcheted into place he sprinted across the roof in the opposite direction, flinging himself into the open space and firing his hook. The night was still young and there was plenty more to do before he called it quits.

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End file.
